


Catch The Wind, See Us Spin

by crimsonepitaph



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Gen, Mild Language, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-29
Updated: 2013-11-29
Packaged: 2018-01-08 00:29:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1126212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonepitaph/pseuds/crimsonepitaph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam Winchester, meet your son and daughter. Or, what is, and what should never be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Author's Note #1:**  
>  Written for the Sam-focused hurt/comfort fic challenge at [](http://ohsam.livejournal.com/profile)[**ohsam**](http://ohsam.livejournal.com/). Original prompt [here](http://ohsam.livejournal.com/689468.html) , number 63. I hope I did it justice.
> 
> **Author's Note #2:**  
>  My first story, after years of watching the show. I'm excited. Nervous. And absolutely terrified. Tweaked some things - and fair warning - this story doesn't have a happy ending, at least not in the conventional sense of the word. No beta - all mistakes are mine. Also, idealized notions. Vague technical stuff. And English? Not my native language. So, tread with caution.
> 
> **Disclaimer:** All recognizable characters and mythology elements belong to their creators. The rest comes from my twisted mind. No profit is made by this story.
> 
> **Spoilers** : Up to and including season 8 - though nothing very specific.

  


_ It’s dark. Leaves rustle restlessly under his boots. He knows. He shouldn’t, but he does. And yet, he still moves. Still follows a trail with an end too close. He made his choice. Bright stars shine on a navy canvas. He wonders if they’ll still be the same tomorrow. If anything would. _

 

“He’s sleeping.”

“Thank you, Captain Obvious, the snoring and pitch black scenery didn’t clue me in.“

“Oh, fuck you. This was your bright idea.”

“Bright being the operative word here. Light, woman. We need light.”

“You call me woman one more time-“

Someone clears their throat loudly. Suddenly, the room is bathed in warm, dim shadows of gold, silhouettes dancing across the walls. Their gazes fall upon the man in the bed. Sleep-ruffled hair, bleary eyes, and a steady grip on the gun in his hand. 

“Is he pointing a gun at me?”

“Us. Right here. I’m right here.”

“He’s pointing a gun at me.”

He rubs his temples. “Well, it’s the middle of the night, he’s a hunter, and we’re two strangers who suddenly materialized in what is, arguably, the most secure building in the world. What did you expect, confetti?”

“We’re not strangers.”

“May I point out that technical details of this particular adventure should not be discussed with a gun aimed in our general direction?” 

The man is standing now, closing in on their spot. He looks confused, but his sleep-addled brain decides a stealthy approach is his best bet. If it’s a dream, chances are he’ll wake up with a few new holes in his walls. He’s okay with that. It’s time he redecorated anyway. If it’s not…well, at least the bad guys are doing a great job at creating a diversion by and for themselves. They startle somewhat when he stops a few steps in front of them. Also, his feet are cold. Randomly, he ponders if the itchy, uncomfortable feeling of socks buried underneath layers of blankets is worth avoiding this wake up call. Because the concrete floor? Ice rink. At least some padding should - right. More pressing issues at hand.  

He studies the intruders, who follow his movements with a wary gaze. There’s something in there –awe, disbelief, a hint of amusement – and grief, sadness, hurt - all encompassed in a confusing mosaic of emotions he can’t really process at the moment. The door opens slightly, the silver tip of a familiar gun creeping in the space, followed by an equally familiar figure. Dean’s wearing socks. Clever bastard.

“Sam? You okay? I heard voi - what the fuck?”

He shrugs. He has no idea. If these are some magical creatures, they are the strangest ones yet. And that includes the Gandhi thingy. He hopes he doesn’t have to salt and burn them. They seem like nice people. Nice kids. And - Jesus fucking Christ. They’re _kids_. He’s not sure how exactly he missed it, between the bickering and the oh-so-loving insults in the name of teasing, but now he’s left playing catch-up, and it’s not an entirely pleasant feeling. It’s remnants of his old self he thought he smothered between centuries of hell and years of redemption, but as they crumble, they re-emerge – it’s a fog he fights his way through every day, every hunt. Good, bad, evil – human and not. What he is, what’s left and what was always there.  

There’s the girl. Tall, slender. Wavy strands of silky amber hair tickle corners of dark green eyes – coming off to her shoulder, they frame angular features that trace an inherent softness descended into fearlessness, into a native determination to be. To stand tall. She’s beautiful. It scares him how much he can read into her, into features he’s never seen before, into mannerisms and behavior that stagger inconspicuously towards known territory. How could that be, he doesn’t even begin to understand. The boy – young man if the light scruff he’s sporting is anything to go by – is even more of an enigma. He’s a contradiction in terms, light green-grey eyes dusted with flecks of gold and hazel all swirled into a mesmerizing disarray of emotions contrasting with minute, methodical, unyielding gestures that betray a determination impossible to sway. He’s the quiet intensity to the girl’s boldness and impatience – the strength to her courage – the rock and the ever-moving sea. Sam watches impatiently, willing that niggling voice in the back of his head to stop mumbling and form actual words. Something’s off, and the weird thing is, something’s off exactly because nothing is. He can’t explain it – and that’s why he does what he does best. He holds the gun straighter, firmer and traces his fingers over the trigger.

The pair’s eyes shift between the brothers, and the only thing left for them now is to make a move. _Any_ move. But they don’t. They stay there, practically motionless, eyes the only storm where there is a clear sky. It would be a fight, except nobody’s throwing punches. Or screaming, or leaving body parts on the floor. Room decorations are still firmly in place - although nobody’s sure that is necessarily a good thing. Actually, it’s silence. Until it’s not.

“Um, okay.” The boy rubs the back of his neck. The familiarity of the gesture plays a drum beat in Sam’s head, but his brain is not entirely up to speed – it’s a fragment, and his mind hasn’t plugged in all the instruments. “Awkward.” 

***

The next thing they know, the main room’s been converted into an interrogation one, minus the bland grey. And the torture instruments. They don’t seem all that harmful – or for that matter, even intent on fighting their situation – besides a few annoyed glares, they seem much more interested in alternatively watching and studying them and the bunker. Once they’re declared weaponless and oddly – completely and utterly human – they’re placed at the far end of the massive table with their hands in view. They’re indulgent, not stupid.

Sam and Dean share a look and a few mouthed words that mostly translate into “what the everloving fuck is going on” and “does this really need to happen at three in the morning”. Dean sighs, takes a seat across them, and puts on his best intimidating act. Which - done in a dead guy’s robe and boxers – he guesses it’s not entirely effectual. 

“Start talking, kids. We ain’t got all night.” They do, but damn it, Dean needs his beauty sleep. That seems to snap them out of whatever haze they got lost in, though, so he counts it as a win.

The girl starts, looking warily at the both of them. 

“Okay, just – just please don’t freak out. “

Dean quirks an eyebrow, corners of his mouth tugging at a smug grin. Sam rolls his eyes. It’s like clockwork.

“Oh, trust me, _kid,_ nothing you can say can freak me out. Been on this rodeo before. “

“Right. Okay. “ 

Then she mumbles something along the lines of “forgot how much of a cocky asshole you can be.” Or so Dean thinks, but he chalks it up to a sudden onset of hearing impairment – he can’t have got that right, because the girl in front of him? Hot. And barely of age, by the looks of it, so Dean’s not touching that with a seven foot pole. Or a ni- point is, he's not going there. Never seen her before, though. He’d _remember_. 

She suddenly seems unsure, so little in the wooden chair, like a child confessing to a broken vase – it’s unnerving. The self-confident force of nature she seemed to be minutes ago is nowhere to be seen – instead, her eyes are glued to Sam’s face, searching for something, looking, analyzing, trying to decipher. The guy takes her hand into his, squeezing slightly. And Dean’s all for taking their time and talking about their feelings, but he’s tired – they’d just got home from a nasty hunt the night before – and he’s starting to get pissed, especially since he began functioning as a piece of décor in the room– although a very pretty one at that, if he does say so himself. He doesn’t really get what’s going on, but there’s this weird gravitational pull, a soundless collision happening right before his eyes – Sam sits back, cautious and reserved – but he sees – what’s so carelessly amplified and broadcasted by their uninvited guests is painted, in a dimmer, more subdued version on his brother’s face. 

He rubs a hand over his face. “Look, guys, are you lost? Been living in a pickle jar for the last hundreds of years? Mummified? Cursed? What?“ Really, they should make that into an ad. “What is it? Give us something to work with here.”

The boy – young man- speaks then, after sparing a glance at his companion, who doesn’t seem like she could get any more words out in the immediate future. His voice is deep, raspy, and completely unexpected. Especially when he uses a tone flatter than a pancake to utter the words than tilt the Winchester’s world on its axis.

“We’re your son and daughter. “

It takes a few seconds, maybe minutes - it’s not like time stopped, after all – to process. His mind wanders to all the rooms the bunker has and he wonders if there’s a padded cell in there somewhere, because that- that is just another level of crazy, flying monkeys and everything. 

“Excuse me?” He’s remotely aware that he’s doing a very bad impression of a fish, but he can’t help it. Distantly, he feels his younger brother go absolutely rigid, tension rolling off him in waves. If this is some kind of joke, it’s the cruelest one – normal and happy shoving it in their faces, saying “oh lookie here, what you’ll never have”. 

“We’re JD and Marie Winchester – “

“And you’re sure you got the right Winchesters?” (What? It’s worth a try.)

The guy – JD, apparently – rolls his eyes.

“You love bacon with a passion, you sleep with your .45 Colt under your pillow, the Taurus .9 mm on your nightstand and the only thing you truly regret in this life is the waitress in Tampa.” He takes a deep breath. “Also, the Impala? Occasionally sticks a little in second gear. You have to pull a little backwards for it to smooth out.”

It’s silent for a couple of minutes – for fuck’s sake – these could really be _his kids_ – and he doesn’t think he can deal with it right now. Or anytime in the next couple of centuries. He lets out a nervous chuckle, because, well, who can argue with that exposition, and shoots Sam a panicked look. The look that says “the cuckoo for cocoa puffs people are making sense – what the fuck do we do now” and waits for him to say something, to actively participate in this conversation that is slowly sucking all the air out of his lungs. Sam takes the hint. And honest to God pouts. 

“I don’t snore.”

_ Of all the _ – Sam is a genius. Most of the time. But sometimes? Well, sometimes he really fails to grasp the importance of timing and oh yes, relevance. Hello? Actually, flesh and bones, real goddamn people here, who are, apparently, offsprings of the most unlucky sons of bitches on earth. Plus, their mother? Probably some drunk, drugged up night in a string of many - which is why he’s decided he’s buying condoms in stock from now. So yeah, excuse him for wanting to smack Sam into next Sunday, he’s freaking out a little. 

For some reason, though, the guys find that extremely funny, bursting into laughter – and it sounds like bells and unicorns – not the evil, murderous type, though - and candy canes and lollipops – and Jesus Christ, Dean needs to cop a feel under his robe to make sure he didn’t suddenly grow a pair of boobs to go with that particular train of thought, because the sound’s melting him to the core. He’s not even sure of the truth in all this, of all it means, of how it’s even possible, but just that tiny chance that it’s not all a fucked-up contortion of his overworked imagination sends his brain into overload and his feelings into uncharted territory.

But, on with the smacking of said annoying little brother. The bastard’s shooting him an unapologetic look, and, if he didn’t know better, he’d say there’s a shadow of a smile on his face- buried under a hurt so deep it rips through him, shattering piece by piece. It’s his normal, it’s his dream he chased until he didn’t have anything left to chase anymore – and to be put on display, to be given just to take back must break him right in two, tugging at strings he so carefully put together with a life he finally accepted as natural, with a reluctant resignation of things that would never be.

“What?” There’s that innocent look – except innocent is a stretch after decades in hell and years of living nightmares before that – which doesn’t go all the way to genuine, but it’s an attempt, it’s him trying to deal with the facts and giving his brother time to find his footing. “That’s not a good first impression for an uncle to make.”. Again, a tentative smile, a shot at accepting, at making peace in a war with himself. 

He would have thought that would get another round of chuckles – hell, it even made him smile- but all he sees on the kids’ faces is confusion, and fuck, the girl’s scrunching up her eyebrows and it’s so reminiscent of his Sammy, of his baby brother, that he wants to cry. Or bang his head against the wall until they all go away. 

“What? No – we- I don’t – fuck, this should be easier.” Okay, maybe not so little. “Our father is Sam.”

Well, if nothing supernatural kills them in the immediate future, the safest bet after that are shock-induced heart attacks.  It didn’t even cross his mind. Sure, Sam’s the monk who gets it once or twice a year and the rest probably spends too much time in the shower – and the one who you’d expect to find behind a white picket fence in another life. But he’s also the guy whose ex-girlfriends most likely share a folder in the morgue’s records and police reports. Questionable human status and morality of past girlfriends aside, he had meant what he said about his idea of a perfect ending what seems like an eternity ago. He just didn’t think he would get it, and certainly not this way.  The way he’d seen it, he would be dead. It seemed the only way – Sam saw the world in black and white – hunting and everything else. A mutually exclusive thing. Hunting meant Dean, and Dean meant hunting. There was some variable in this equation that wasn’t adding up. 

And well, there was Sam, who was currently trying to catch flies with his mouth, watching the two like they’d suddenly grown a second head and a wiggly tail. 

“I’m sorry, you’re who to the what now?” Apparently he found his voice in between the jaw muscle stretching exercises he was doing. He wanted to laugh. God, it was so unlike Sam – Sam who had all the answers, who lost the deer in the headlights look around the age of fourteen. 

“Right. Socially stunted Winchester genes. Forgot.” A small smile plays on her face, but the look in her eyes is more sad than anything else. It’s like she’s expecting him to vanish into thin air, like if she studies him hard enough, intently enough, she’ll be able to remember everything. 

“We’re JD “ - she points to her brother – “and Marie.” –and to herself. “Time-traveling enthusiasts and all around awesome people.”

Dean decides it’s a good time to step into the conversation.

“Yeah, got that. Still having trouble with the whole Daddy Sam thing. How does that even work?”

“Well, Uncle D, when two people love each other very much…“

It’s silence for a few beats. “And say - you’re completely sure you’re not mine?”

“She’s sure.” JD’s voice is low, and for all the attention the girl, Marie, demands, they almost forgot he was there. Which, great start as parents. Or uncles. Fuck, it’s hard to keep it straight. 

“Look, we know this is the last thing you expected. God knows, we heard enough stories about your sad bachelor lives before us. But it’s all true and-“

“Why JD?” Sam’s voice is hoarse, like he has trouble getting the words out past an invisible force.

“It’s actually Johnny Dean, but, you know, coolness factor and all that.” He shoots Sam the first real smile of the night, all warmth and dimples. _Dimples._ Jesus Christ, they’re fucked.

“Well, little brother, points for originality on that one.”, Dean pipes up. A fuzzy warm feeling has momentarily spread in his chest. It’s the itchy, creepy robe. Totally. He really needs to get rid of it.

“And Marie-“

“Yeah.” 

Words kind of lose any meaning after that, because it suddenly hits. The realization that all this is indeed real, and Kevin hasn’t broken some jar with slimy, red substance in the lab, that they exist, in some far future, and it hasn’t gone all to hell. It’s comforting and absolutely terrifying at the same time, but Dean thinks, all in all, it’s not the worst thing that could have happened. The kids seem pretty well-adjusted – if you ignore the sarcasm overload that seems to run in the family- and, most important of all, sane. Sane, like their earliest memory isn’t of a figure burning on the ceiling. Sane, like they don’t spend their days in messy goo and angry spirits and their nights in the bottom of the bottle. It’s a little depressing to think that that’s better than anyone could have asked for.

Sam speaks up again, and his next words hit Dean like a punch.

“Are you- are you… _clean_?” The last word is muttered with a jumbled mix of hope and terror, like he couldn’t not ask, and yet he doesn’t want to hear the answer, like he’s afraid of what it might be.

“What the hell? I mean- we wash- but – do we smell or something? Look, just point us to the showers and-”

Marie looks honestly confused, and, in under a minute, she’s managed to work herself into a frantic mess. She reminds Dean of a child on his first day of school. JD puts a gentle hand on her shoulder, and the effect is instantaneous. His touch is soothing, and she relaxes, but JD fixes Sam with a hard look. 

“Yeah. We are. We always were.”

He knows. It’s obvious by the tight set of his jaw and his fist clenching on the table. Dean doesn’t really understand his reaction. Or, maybe he does, but he wishes he didn’t. Sam’s carried this weight for so long – all his life- tainted, infected, evil, not pure. It’s ingrained in every fiber of his being, and no matter the good he does, the good he is, he can’t believe himself to be other than that. And it’s really fucking frustrating, because Sam may have made some questionable choices along the road, but that – _this_ \- was never his fault. He was born on a chess table, a piece with a limited set of moves – a world where, ultimately, one way or the other, the end was always the same.  It makes him angry, too, how the universe fucked up his little brother and his sense of self-worth. Most of all, he’s angry because, try as hard as he might, he’s powerless to change it at all. 

“That’s good – that’s really good.” 

Sam sucks in a relieved breath, and some of the tension leaves his shoulders. It doesn’t really sound like it was meant to be said out loud – he’s there – but he’s also in that scary place of his mind where all the doubts and really, really bad decisions come from. Sometimes Dean wishes he didn’t know his brother as well as he does. Because this is all a process of flaying flesh to the bone in the most excruciatingly slow of manners, and he can feel every second of it like it’s his own.

Marie hasn’t lost the questioning look in her eyes, but she must sense something in the air, because she seems willing to concede the point and move on for now. For the millionth time that night, a heavy silence covers the room. It’s a little like playing tennis, throwing the ball back and forth, except once in a while someone would hit it too hard, sending it flying in the crowd, and leaving the receiving party to dig through all of it in order to return. 

“Okay, say we believe you. Not to be rude…but why the hell are you here, then? “

And yeah, they are brother and sister all right, they wear identical sheepish smiles and deceptively innocent looks modeled to perfection when they shrug and announce that “they were bored”. Dean sighs. It’s only natural that Winchesters would adopt time-travel as a way to pass time.  But that, apparently, is the straw that broke the camel’s back, because Sam is suddenly standing and scrambling towards the exit. Dean doesn’t even have time to get in a word before Sam’s grabbing his jacket from where it had been hastily thrown the previous night and heading out the door, the metal letting out a painful screech when it closes. 

The idiot is barefoot. Outside, in ten degree weather, and barefoot. Dean gets up, grabs a random pair of boots and makes it all the way to the stairs until he remembers why exactly he’s doing all that. He turns around, and sure enough, two pairs of eyes are tracking his every movement. 

“I’m going outside.” Well, duh. “Don’t break anything.” 

They roll their eyes – seriously - they could do some permanent damage– and give him a short nod.

***

  
Outside, he finds Sam pacing, and testing the strength of the brick wall. In a shocking turn of events, the wall wins. He shoves the boots in front of him, wiggling them and pointing to his feet. It doesn’t seem to do the trick. So he catches his brother mid-stride, manhandles him to a sitting position against the side of the bunker and promptly gets his humongous limbs - now a nice shade of turquoise – in the boots. He even ties off the shoelaces. He’s an awesome big brother like that.    


All the fight had left Sam once he felt Dean’s arms on him, and now he’s just staring. At what, he’s still struggling to understand. In the absence of any other bright ideas, Dean finds a comfortable position near him, and waits. Well, mooches off warmth off his brother and waits. If he gets a cold, he’s totally making Sam bring him breakfast in bed. 

It takes a while. They’re both freezing, but it doesn’t really seem to matter. Because finally, Sam talks.

“Dean, I…I can’t be a father. God. The first thing I did was point a gun at them. At my kids. A gun. Fuck, Dean, they’re _kids_ – lives- and – who the fuck would want an ex-blood junkie as a father? A failure? My father’s a doctor, and yours? Well, mine started the Apocalypse, thank you very much.“ A dark chuckle makes its way out of Sam’s throat, and the sound sends chills up Dean’s spine. “Oh, and do you want to hear the rest of Sammy’s greatest hits? Well, let’s see. I may or may not have fucked and killed my way through the country while I was soulless. As in without a soul or a conscience. That’s completely normal. Absolutely, and undoubtfully normal. Everyone goes through that, right? That time I was in hell? That - that was just peachy. Really, best vacation I ever had. I came back so out of my mind I didn’t even know what was real an what was not. The mental hospital? Yeah – they might want to tell their friends that their father went cray-cray there for a while.“. Sam’s voice is pitched high, and the whole thing has a hysterical edge to it, but Dean listens, lets him finish. It’s like letting a building be demolished and burned to the ground.  He’s just the construction crew that starts something new in place.

“And you…I was such a piss-poor excuse for a brother all this time, and you keep on giving, and I keep on taking. Selfish, stupid idiot. Why? Why, Dean? Why me? It’s the universe playing some cruel joke on me because I said I wanted normal? I can’t have that anymore – and fuck- I whine and bitch- but I’m not even good at it. I’m best when I’m with you – and – God, what if I fuck them up for good – and I’m not a father, Dean, I’m not, I-“

Yeah, screw listening. 

“Hey. Hey, look at me.” He sneaks two frozen fingers under Sam’s chin, turning his face towards him. Even in the dark, he can tell his eyes are glistening with tears he held on to for too long. 

“You’re not a father. Or you are, but you’re also the same guy you’ve always been. And that’s a good thing. Sam, that was always a good thing, don’t you ever doubt that. We made mistakes – both of us- we fucked up beyond belief sometimes, but we’ve always come out on the other side. And think about it, man – how much of that crazy shit was you, the real you? You know, the guy who used to share the cereal surprise with his big brother when he was little? You put it any other way than that, you’re bound to go crazy. It’s in the past. God knows you paid for it. And pointing a gun at them? Dude, my first and second thought were the girl’s hot and-“

“You finish that sentence and you’re peeing in a bag for the rest of your life.”

Dean lets out a laugh, the first real one in what feels like ages. “Yeah, sure, you’re not a father. Dude – they don’t need fancy doctors or whatever else your too big brain came up with- they need love. The rest comes from it. Besides, they seem like they turned out pretty good, so you can’t have done that bad of a job. ” Sam is still looking at him, and it’s like he’s hanging all his life on Dean’s words. There’s so much need I there, so much urgency to hear those words, to be assured that he’s not a screw-up, that he can do this, that everything’s going to be alright. 

“Come on, man. We’ll just… figure it out. We’ll figure it out like we always do.” 

“Promise?”

“Yeah, Sammy, I promise.” 

Crickets chirp in the distance.

“Dean?”

“Yeah, Sam?”

“Can we go inside now?”

Sometimes Dean just really loves his little brother. 

“Thank fuck. Things were starting to fall off.”

The sound of Sam’s laughter carries inside. The world is back on its axis. 

                  


	2. Chapter 2

By the time they’re back, it’s already dawn. Neither of them goes back to sleep that night, though. There’s too many questions, too many answers that cross the line into impossibility. Sam goes for a long run. Dean cleans his guns. They process. 

After a shower, a shave and a shirt that doesn’t look like it went ten rounds with a slimy ball of goo – and really, is that what they’ve been reduced to?- Sam braves the kitchen. It’s basic thinking. It’s Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. They’re kids. They’re people. Breathing, check. Well, hopefully. Sleep, check. Food, ongoing development. But there’s a reason, a very good one, why he researches and Dean cooks. First time he saw the frying pan he thought it’d provide a nice make-up change on some vengeful spirit’s face. But he’s Sam motherfucking Winchester, guy who beat the Devil once. Those pancakes? They have it coming.  So he throws all the groceries he bought on the way back from his run on the counter, and sets to work.

When he’s finished, the living room, or, well, the room with the really big table in it, smells like bacon and pancakes. Granted, the pancakes look like an elephant took permanent residence on them, and the bacon bears an uncanny resemblance to lit charcoal, but they seem edible. For the most part. Just as he places the napkins under the cutlery – yeah, planning is not his strong point – a tall figure stumbles in the room, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. It’s JD, and Sam’s heart does a little flip-flop in his chest. In three seconds flat he goes from mostly calm to so fucking nervous he can’t breathe right. Seriously, give him a ghost, a werewolf, hell, throw in a Wendigo – _something_. Something other than this. That he can handle. But he seriously doubts JD or Marie would appreciate a handful of salt thrown in their faces or a silver knife sticking out of their extremities. Hence, the silver cutlery and the over-salted bacon. Adjusting. Yeah, he’s doing really well.

“Um – morning.”

JD shoots him a sleepy smile, and plops down onto the chair with an ungraceful thud. He looks so comfortable, so _at home,_ Sam’s momentarily dazed.

“Hi.” I’ll take general awkwardness for two hundred, Alex. “I made breakfast.” Captain Obvious reporting for duty, sir. He clears his throat, tries again. “So –uh- sleep well?” Well, it’s something. 

The kid is still smiling, and on some level, Sam thinks he’s enjoying this more than he should. It’s not forever. It’s temporary, it’s later, but it’s also now, and he can’t let that go without a fight. 

“Yeah. I guess time travelling takes a lot more out of you than I first realized. Is there coffee or something?”

He almost breaks his neck in his haste to grab the pot from the kitchen. But now the kid has coffee. So, win. When he gets back, JD’s eyeing the bacon suspiciously. 

“You know, you didn’t have to do all this.” He raises his gaze, and meets Sam’s. “We didn’t come here to judge. We came to…” He pauses, like he’s searching for the right words. “…hang out.”

Sam raises an eyebrow. ‘Cause if that’s his kid, then that’s his special brand of telling half the truth – the one he learned when he was seven and tried out his brand new set of permanent markers on the leather in the backseat of the Impala– lies by omission are a valuable survival skill. 

JD shifts uncomfortably in the seat, suddenly preoccupied with a particularly interesting crack in his coffee mug. And then promptly changes the subject. Doubts about the Winchester genes are swept under the rug.

“So…things still look pretty much the same.”

“What do you mean?” 

“The bunker.” He shrugs. “Aside from some books and gadgets – and our rooms, obviously – not much has changed.”

It takes a little for Sam to actually understand what he’s saying.

“Wait, you live here?”

“Yeah, how did you think we managed the whole materializing _inside_ thing?”

“I – I hadn’t given it much thought. I pretty much blanked out on the theories when you said you were – you know- that I was your–“

“Father.”

“Yeah.” 

It’s this nervous energy that spreads around the room, that gets lost somewhere between his brain cells and vocal chords. He wants to ask so much, to know, to understand how it all came to be and how it’s even possible, but he’s afraid to, he’s afraid to hear the answers, because, in his mind, there’s no doubt that he’s screwed up somehow, that even if it’s true, he’s not cast as the good guy in this fucked up game they’re playing. 

“So wait- you’re hunters?” 

There it goes. The big issue- the “how bad did I fuck up your life” question. JD is looking straight at him, and somehow he must be able to read the tension lines in his face – because he phrases his next words with so much care that you’d think he was disarming a bomb. He might as well be.

“Well, not really. In a sense. Depends on what your definition of hunter is.”

He feels the need to point out that there is no gray in this life, that you either chase monsters or you sip wine on the porch watching the sunset- there’s no in between, there’s no “in a sense”, that you’re either a hunter or you’re not. The rebuttal comes so quick and unexpected, though, that he’s not sure they haven’t had this conversation before.

“Actually, there is. Call it what you want – learning from your mistakes, or making a life out of better circumstances – but we found a way that works. We hunt sometimes. We didn’t though, until we were eighteen and could shoot and fight our way of any situation. We always choose the jobs, we always know the risks and we never chance something we can’t win. Rest of the time? We chase our dreams. Marie has a college diploma in Art and Design. She loves photography and music.” He pauses, looking around, like he’s expecting something or someone to just jump out from the shadows. “Did you know there isn’t a single soundproofed room in this goddamn bunker? I mean, she plays the guitar like she’s possessed by Page’s ghost, but-“

“Jimmy Page isn’t dead.”

“Right. Whoops. Spoiler alert. Point is, it’s good. And she puts everything to good use too, you know? Can’t tell you how many time hunters found the thing they were looking for based on her sketches and drawings from witness statements.”

“She works with other hunters?”

“Not in the real, face-to-face sense. We set up a community, a network, if you will, of hunters. The majority are pretty good with computers, ‘cause you know –the future-, so we went with that. It’s maybe to us a more advanced extension of what apps are for you now – specifically engineered software that helps keep tabs on everything. It tells you where there’s a job, or at least suspicious events, who’s in the area, if they’re available, stuff like that. Databases of all things supernatural, tips, questions – it’s a way to communicate and keep in touch. It’s not that complicated, but it works pretty well.”

“Don’t be modest, bro. It’s fucking genius, is what it is.” 

It’s Marie, and they should really talk soon about all the swearing, but for now he’s a little too dumbfounded to get out actual, intelligible sounds. She scoots over to the end of the table and her Led Zeppelin t-shirt rides a little high as she stretches, revealing some very interesting tattoos that leave Sam grasping at straws in terms of actually forming a coherent thought. She doesn’t seem fazed though, as she reaches for the stack of pancakes and squirts half the bottle of syrup on them. She’s barely finished chewing her first bite – and didn’t look like she was in pain or choke to death at any point in time during that, so score one for Sam’s cooking skills- when she starts talking again.

“Come on, Mr. I-graduated-early-from-MIT-and-invented-the single-most-useful-thing-ever. Well, not ever, ‘cause, you know, there’s mascara, but you get the gist.” She’s waving her fork around in gestures that should probably aid the exposition somehow, but mainly they just make them want to duck for cover. “I mean, there’s geek, and there’s JD. His thoughts are all zeroes and ones, I tell you. Some of us were still dressing our Barbies when he finished the first working version of his baby. Yep, he calls it his baby.” She scoffs, but you’d have to be deaf and blind not to see the pride that shines in her eyes and the admiration that punctuates every word. She concludes with a scoffed “Men and their stupid nicknames.” and goes back to happily munching on her pancakes, completely unaware of the pair of eyes that remain fixed on her.

Sam turns to his son – _his son_ and he doesn’t think there will ever come a day when he’ll get used to that- to gape in astonishment. JD’s slightly blushing, but he’s not letting this one go. Hell, after this he’s going to check if there are any rooftops in the vicinity where he can shout it from.

“You-you went to MIT?”

“Um –yeah?”

“Wow. And you’re still a hunter -I mean-what-how?” 

“I’m not _still_ a hunter. I always was. Just went about it a different way, I guess. It was never a question of choosing, you know? Whole time I was in college I was using what I learned to develop that, to find something that’d change the way it’s done, that’d make everything easier, safer for everyone.” An indescribable emotion flashes in his grey-green eyes, but it’s too brief for Sam to understand any of its meaning. “I’m still working on it, actually – and on the side I help with the research, if anyone needs a hand on something more complicated or complex.“

“Like say, hacking into the NSA.” Marie pipes up from behind a bacon strip tower. 

“Really?” JD shoots her an incredulous look.

“What? ‘S true.” She spares a glance at Sam, shrugging. “’s not like they don’t have a rap sheet the length of- wait, what’s really, really long?”

JD huffs out an exasperated sigh. And Sam wants to laugh. Laugh, because there’s no way there’s a universe where things work out that way, where the best of both world is an actual concept and not some desperate illusion of a broken mind.  It can’t be. Their world is hell, reapers, the apocalypse – purgatory, death and sacrifice – never balance, never happiness, never content. Just putting one foot in front of the other, taking it one day at a time, and reveling in the brief moments of joy that life throws them out of pity once in a while. And this is blowing his mind – it’s like painting the same picture in different colors, it’s a bright light at the end of a poorly lit tunnel, it’s a reason to fight and believe. 

“Hey, where’s Uncle D?”

His thoughts are interrupted by Marie, who, after mowing down half the food on the table, seems to have finally taken notice of her surroundings. And yeah, Sam has some thoughts on that too, on Dean’s absence, and all of them make him want to smack his brother over the head. For as much Dean knows Sam, Sam knows Dean like the back of his hand, too. And he knows that he’s awake and skulking somewhere in the bunker, probably working on the cars, trying to pass the time. He knows his big brother feels like he’d intrude, like it’s Sam’s moment and doesn’t want to take it from him. Like this changes everything, like Sam’s going to suddenly stop needing him now that he’s got JD and Marie – and God, could his brother be more wrong? Dean’s thinking of Sam’s happy ending as his own – and yet, he accepts that he’s not part of it, that he’ll never be, without so much as a se cond thought – and it’s so selfless, and so _Dean_ , and so not at all what Sam wants. 

He wants his brother right there with him, every step of the way – and maybe that’s selfish, because, truth be told, if anyone deserves a happy ending, it’s his big brother, not him – but he hadn’t even considered a life without Dean in it, a life without someone to tell him when he screws up and someone to get him right back on track after that. It’s always been like that - regardless of choices he felt he had to make, he’d never choose a life without Dean, without that extension of himself that’s learnt and relearnt every time he looks into moss green eyes.  

That’s not what he says, though.

“I’m guessing he’s in the kitchen, having a coronary.”

Marie looks confused. Sam shrugs, a mischievous smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“War zone. I- uhm- there was a small accident with the pancake batter –“

“Wait, you cooked? But mom said-“

“ _Marie_ -“, JD interrupts, and an odd look is exchanged between them, but Sam doesn’t have time to make sense of it, because there’s a loud squeal and a muffled “Ow” coming from the kitchen area and seconds later, Kevin’s marching in, brandishing the whisk like the deadliest of weapons and eyeing Sam like his sole purpose in life is to beat him to death with it.

“What the hell is wrong with you? How many time does that have to happen for you to actually learn? _Hello?_ Prophet of The Lord here. You’d think that’d stop you from trying to kill me, but _nooo_ -you let your duffel bags- and your clothes –and oh, by the way- newsflash, Sam? You’re not tiny. Not in the slightest. So your clothes? They take a lot of place. _A lot_.  And is it written somewhere in hunter’s manual that the concept of cleaning only applies to guns? Jesus Christ, would it really kill you to –“ . A girlish giggle interrupts his murderous rant. Sam’s grateful. ‘Cause otherwise he’d have done something entirely suicidal and point out that those were Dean’s clothes, not his, and Kevin should watch where he’s going.  “Oh hi. Didn’t see you there.”

Sam takes advantage of the moment, carefully grabs the whisk from Kevin’s hands and puts it on the far end of the table – what? angry Kevin is scary Kevin- and sets on making the introductions. Only, Kevin’s still a little dazed, and Marie jumping and squeezing the life out of him with a loud, high-pitched “Uncle K!” screamed out in excitement certainly doesn’t help matters. JD is more reserved, but he holds out a hand to shake, and it takes the younger (well, younger for now) man a little to understand that, according to social norms and requirements, he actually has to move. Then he turns back around to Sam. His eyes are bugging out of his head, and it would look pretty funny, except now Sam has to explain, and that? That is easier said than done, when he’s not sure he fully believes himself.

“She called me uncle. Why did she call me uncle?” 

“Kevin, I’d like you to meet my son and daughter. Marie and JD…and well, I guess you two already know Kevin.”

They nod, and eye Kevin with an amused look- who, based on the blank look on his face and lack of response to outside stimulus- has most likely gone into some kind of shock. Sam maneuvers him into a chair, and struggles not to laugh, because he’s pretty sure he wore the exact same look just hours earlier. Now…now he’s just eager. Eager to know more, to learn the most he can about his kids- because he’s no dumb cookie- he doesn’t fool himself into thinking it’s forever or anything close to it. If anything, he’s guessing it’s all borrowed time, and whoever’s holding the hourglass doesn’t really have an interest in what he does with it. 

But the scene’s missing a piece, maybe its most important one, and Sam is going to fix that right now. He takes off towards the garage, shooting JD a reassuring look when he feels him tracking his movements, and gets out of range just in time for Kevin to start his panicked ramble of it all being a dream. Joke is, he’s not even that far from the truth. But, for what seems like the first time, it’s a good one. 

***

He’s right. Dean’s under the hood of the Impala, Motorhead blasting from inside the car. It takes a shout, a light punch to his shoulder and Dean banging his head on the metal when he raises it too fast to get his attention. He curses loudly, and goes to turn off the music, but he’s still not looking at Sam, or behaving anything like he actually wants to have this conversation.

“What are you doing, Dean?”

He shrugs noncommittally. 

“Changing the oil. Baby needed it.”

“Uh-huh. _Baby_ had an oil change last month.”

“So?”

Sam fixes him with a glare.

“Since when are you the car expert, anyway?” 

“Since you started avoiding me and the kids like the plague.” 

At that, Dean meets Sam’s gaze, anger and resignation all twisted into one and coated into features that know them too well. He grits his teeth, almost snarling the response. They’ve done this dance so many times, it’s almost easier to skip to the chorus.

“Well, Sam, what do you want me to do? Huh? Want me to come play house? I’ll play. But they’re your kids, not mine.”

“I know. I’m sorry for that.” 

For a brief moment, Dean looks taken aback.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means that I think you’d make a much better father than me.”

“Sam-“

“No, Dean, you’re going to listen to me this time. It means what it meant all those years ago. It means I look up to you. It means that you’re all I have – now and down the line. It means that they might be my kids, but you’re stone number one. Remember? I can’t do this without you.”

“Sam, I get that, but-“

“No buts. I don’t really know what else to tell you other than that. I guess the rest is really up to you to understand. But Dean, whatever fucked up notion you have drilled into your head that my life’s better without you, get it out. That was never true. You’re not doing me a favor. You’re not doing what’s best for me. You’re doing what’s easier for you.”

Ores of emerald sparkle with fury.

“Does _any_ part of this look like it’s fucking easy?” 

“No, but it’s sure as hell easier than actually putting yourself on the line.”

“Sammy-“

“For fuck’s sake, Dean, if you’re going to make me beg for it, I will. But you’re family. _My_ family. And this time I’m not letting go, no matter how much you want me to.” 

“I don’t _want_ you to do that, Sam.” 

Suddenly, all the anger drains out of him, like he’d reached the last of the fuel and now he’s running on empty.

“Of course I don’t want that. Fuck- I want – I want everything to be good for you, and I thought-“

“Yeah, I know.” He pauses for a few beats. “But you were wrong. “

It’s quiet for a long moment, Dean staring at him so intently, searching, questioning- but he’s got nothing else to find other than the truth. He won the battle – but the real war is inside Dean’s head, between beliefs ingrained into every fiber of his being and words he wants to hear but he’s too scared to believe. 

“Just so you know, this new authority thing you’ve got going on? Freaks me out, Sammy.”

Sam smiles. They don’t travel along a smooth road, and this most likely won’t be the last arugument along the same lines, but they always get there. It’s Dean’s way of saying “I’ll try”, and maybe in some alternate reality, “you’re right”. He’ll take what he can get. The hood closes with a thud. They make their way towards the door together. Just like it should be. 

“What’s with all the noise, anyway?”

“Kevin found out.”

“Kid could sleep through an elephant herd marching through the bunker.”

“Yeah. He got mad at me for the kitchen.”

Dean stops his stride towards the garage exit.

“Sam -” And there it is, drawn out and flat in tone, the illusion of calm behind the hot core. “-what exactly _happened_ to the kitchen?”

“That’s actually a funny story. Remember how I’m your favorite brother and you’d be really, really sad if I died?”


	3. Chapter 3

Theory is, raising kids happens in stages. One, you change diapers. Buy the fluffiest stuffed animals you can find. Realize the car keys make for a much more interesting toy. You feed, you play. Occasionally, there’s sleep. You marvel at the tiny little miracle you helped make. Two, you face the brave new world and get used to the idea of playing referee in a war between them and all inanimate objects in the immediate vicinity. You kiss away their first boo-boo and move the coffee table to the attic. You make the first mistake, you learn the term paralyzing fear. Three, you play catch with your son. You watch your daughter parade around in a pink tutu. Or do it in reverse. You buy toy trucks in stock and spend your days building pink castles and braiding bleached- blond artificial hair. You entertain the notion of princesses and superheroes. You give them something good to believe in, because they’ve already started to realize the world’s painted in shades of gray. You watch them win their first game, star in their first recital. Maybe win a science fair or a debate contest. You tend to their scraped knees and cut the crusts off their bread slices. Then maybe you stick around for the years when they start believing they don’t need you anymore. If you’re lucky, you hear about their first crush. You ride out the enthusiasm, the googly eyes. You wait for the inevitable fallout. You give them a hug and let them cry on your shoulder. You drift away. Suddenly, there’s mood swings. Uncomfortable sex talks. Alcohol and bad decisions. They don’t come to you anymore. But you’re still there, with a firm speech and all the love in the world. They come back. And they change. They change so much, that the little miracle you began with is suddenly six feet tall. You change. You learn they’re their own people now. You smile and tell them how proud you are. The rest of your days become happier and sadder all at the same time. You adjust. Every night you go to bed, you think about how lucky you are.

Problem is, Winchesters have never been good with theories. There’s no Plan A. They usually get midway through the alphabet. And that’s when they don’t need extra letters. They’re good with that, because it works. They worry about each other and, when pestered enough, about themselves. The rest they deal with. It leaves them a little broken and a little worse for the wear, but it’s themselves, each other and the world. The dynamic is ingrained into mind, heart and soul – it’s a duty, it’s love, it’s a balance traced to ancient times. 

They have a puzzle with five hundred pieces. They fit them all together. Glued, cut, torn, with blood and tears. But it’s final. It’s good, as good as it can be, and it works. And they get two more. It isn’t even the same picture on the board, but the box comes with clear instructions. The choice is virtually non-existent. So they rearrange. Skip to adjusting, and hope to hell the stages they missed wait for them in a future they didn’t dare hope for. 

They’re thrown in random moments on a timeline burned through the years, and they watch. They watch how JD rarely smiles, but his laughter fills a room. How Marie wears her heart on her sleeve, unafraid and unaware of the daredevil she plays in a family that has an inherent tendency towards closed and subdued, hazy and dark. They watch how, against all odds, their world made it into something good.

It’s as hard as it is easy – hard to accept as truth and easy to fall into routine. But they do, and on a sunny Saturday afternoon, they even play into the illusion of normal – they place a picnic blanket on the field next to the bunker. Dean grumbles constantly about the chick-flicky feeling it has to it and refuses to eat anything that comes in a basket. Sam smiles a secret smile, and sets up four sets of five empty beer cans and bottles. It’s mismatched, it’s improvised, and totally worth the surprised look on his brother’s face when he announces the impromptu target practice that predictably turns into a contest. It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy the calmness and tranquility of it all, of simply spending time talking, sharing, learning each other- it’s sort of perfect in a way it never was- but it’s also slowly having him climb the walls. For better or worse, he’s a hunter in every sense of the word. It’s become more than a job, more than a book. It’s who he is, an identity that he fought so hard against that he ended up reinforcing it, strengthening its core and roughing out its edges. And now, he’s found his reason to trust it as a valid choice, to recognize it as an integral part of himself that he can’t rip out. So he gives in, and makes it their own memory, their own brand of happy. He surprises himself when he laughs, so genuine and carefree it feels foreign – but it’s impossible not to, not when Dean’s sticking his bottom lip out, pouting and muttering curses under his breath because both his nephews have better aim than him. It’s reassuring, and easing Sam’s mind, knowing his kids can protect themselves – although he hopes they’ll never have to.  He’d like to do that for them.

It’s been two days of awkward moments, heavy silences and stolen looks – but it’s also been two days of different, of happy, of building towards something new. Sam doesn’t try to be someone he’s not. For his sanity and the others’ health, he lets Dean cook. He’s doesn’t jump ten feet in the air when one of them approaches. When he carries out a conversation with them, he doesn’t weigh his every word anymore. He lets it go. He figures, it’s the best he can do, for them and for himself. He still has his moments, when it all comes crashing down on him, and everything seems too much, too impossible, too good- when erratic and anxious verge on panic attacks he thought he was too case-hardened and stubborn to have. But Dean’s always there, talking him off the ledge every time, and there are no words to thank him for that – not when he knows his big brother’s having just as a hard time taking it all in and wrapping his head around it. 

Still, there are things he won’t ask, about his future and their past. Their mom. The day they were born. The year. He doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t want to spend the next years floating through and hanging onto a thin thread of hope. He’d place expectations in a life where that move constitutes a suicide mission – he’d wait for something that may never come, and if nothing broke him until now, this would shatter him to pieces that not even Dean, with all his love and devotion, could put back together. All his life, he liked to know, to understand. Now, in these moments, he cherishes the unknown.  The idea that down the road sometime his life has taken a good direction. It’s cautiously optimistic, and if nothing more, then he’ll always have this, what could be, and what was. Here, now, it’s good. And that’s all he can care about for now.

It’s almost too good. When they get back inside, everyone has a smile plastered on their faces. Kevin, in one of his video game breaks – his Prophet duties have been currently put on hold – inquires about any suspicious substances involved. He’s putting on a good game face, but he’s enjoying this at least as much as they are – he’s missed having someone to talk to about something else than angels, demons and tablets, and JD and Marie seem to have transferred their affection for Uncle Kevin into an easy friendship with just Kevin, the guy who had his first drinks somewhere around a year ago.

The best part happens, though, when they’re getting ready to go to sleep. Marie’s wearing another oversized Metallica t-shirt over some loose pants with dandelions printed on them, and the simple sight makes Sam break into a smile, because that’s his little girl, his not so little rebel and contradiction in terms. She approaches him slowly, unsure, making a few steps and then retreating, until finally, she makes up her mind and nearly jumps in his arms. As far as hugs go, it’s a pretty clumsy one – limbs are flailing, hair is getting in the way, but it doesn’t matter – he has his baby girl in his arms. He’d never let go, except JD is standing there, staring at them with an unreadable look on his face. Part of it seems a muted joy lost in a grey-green sea of grief and anguish – and maybe a hint of anger – but he must be seeing it wrong. He must be, because he remembers that look, on different features, in different times – he remembers the glint of unshed tears, the emptiness he felt reflecting in deep green eyes. It’s too much of the same and too hard to see it again, so he doesn’t. He presses a kiss into Marie’s hair, and gives JD a short nod. He knows tears are threatening to spill over, but his own he recognizes as an attempt at happiness, a dream lost come to life. He doesn’t expect the quiet, almost imperceptible “Good night, dad.” muttered in his direction in a deep, raspy voice. When he looks back, his son is peering at him through long eyelashes, whatever turmoil that plagued his mind before melted into a soft look. He forgets. It’s all he needs. That night, he stays awake. He thinks about how lucky he is. 

 ***

  
Dean’s happy. He is. As close to the feeling they get, he’s there. Because he feels needed, because whatever dysfunctional family they make between the four of them, it kind of works. JD and Marie are tangled threads of the proverbial Winchester cloth, an intricate disarray of traits that make them unique and similar, easy and hard to understand. He’s had doubts. Of course he’s had doubts – it’s who he is, who he was trained to be. But he doesn’t have proof, and he doesn’t have anyone to ask. So he believes. He believes because Sam believes, and it’s been a long time since his brother did that.

It’s fucked up, if he thinks about it too much. Kids and them? Not the way the world should go. But it does, and he’s there, caught in the middle of it – and while he won’t admit it anytime soon, he kind enjoys it, being part of something good, of something that’s not laced with second guesses and grand plans waiting to happen.  
But there’s this voice in the back of his head, muffled and indistinct, that shouts at him that something’s not right, that there’s something missing from the whole, and it’s getting stronger every time JD and Marie share a cryptic look, every time they stop talking when one of them enters the room. They seem so eager to know Sam, to spend time with him, and yet around him they’re skittish, awkward and clumsy – it’s like they want it, but they don’t know how. What’s weirder, it seems a behavior limited in its entirety to Sam – around Dean they’re comfortable and at ease, if the number of hugs and playful punches in the shoulder he got from Marie are any indication. It doesn’t make sense, because his little brother may be the stricter one of them – read totally stuck-up – but he was never their father, never the guy who’d withhold affection with a purpose of grander things.  And there’s random moments, atypical gestures and offhand comments that somehow don’t fit with this version of the apple pie life.

_ “Seriously. All five. From 200 yards. “ A pause. “There’s no way. You cheated.” _

_ “Apprentice surpasses the master.” A smile. “It’s a day for the history books.” _

_ It takes a moment to realize why that sounds wrong. JD’s long gone by then, Sam’s gun still in his hands. _

-/-

_ “Fuck you. At least I didn’t get the sex talk.”  _

_ “That’s because Uncle D was still in shock.” _

_ “No, I wasn’t. Whatever it is you’re talking about, I wasn’t.  I’m a badass hunter. I don’t go into shock.” _

_ “Sure you are.” She pats his shoulder consolingly.  Then she huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, you were. It was pretty hilarious actually. I don’t know who was more freaked, Natalie of the shotgun or Uncle D of her.” _

_ “You could have made a point of telling them you were dating a girl.” _

_ “Where would have been the fun in that?” _

-/-

_ “Maybe, just maybe if you listened to me this one time-“ _

_ “I don’t need you telling me what to do.” _

_ “Look, M, I understand-“ _

_ “No, you don’t! You don’t. You had time. I didn’t.” _

-/-

_ “Dude. Kings of Leon? Really?” _

_ “What?” _

_ “Zeppelin. Floyd. Hell, Supertramp. Metallica. The Who. That’s rock. “ He scowls at the tiny screen. “That is crap.” _

_ “I like them.” _

_ “Yeah. You would.” _

_ “Excuse me?” _

_ “Nothing.“ JD raises an expectant eyebrow. Dean sighs. “Sammy’s the only other guy I know who listens to this crap you call music. “ _

_ He looks away. “Yeah.” It’s a while until he speaks again. “I snatched them off his iPod.” _

 

Dean thinks, and re-thinks, but the wheels in his head must need a little oiling, because he can’t remember a single story or conversation about Sam. With Sam in the plotline. Involving Sam. Nothing. He's heard of Uncle K, of Uncle Cassie – he guesses that’s Castiel, although he’s not entirely sure of how that works-  even Grandpa Bobby made a brief appearance in one of their discussions. And there’s Mom, of course – who, one way or another, infiltrates almost every anecdote. He’s this mysterious entity that Dean’s dying to know more about – but Sam said don’t poke, so he leaves the bear alone. But Sam- Sam’s never cast in any role- and the worst thing is, his brother’s so caught up in soaking it all in, he hasn’t even noticed. 

It’s impossible. He must have missed something, forgot, completely ignored – anything at all. Because this, this is his world crashing down on him. The one he constructed just days ago, with the promise of a new beginning. He knows his brother. He knows that he’s more like John Winchester than he’d ever like to admit, that he’s the man who’d give everything good up to play the bad guy if it means a happy ending – he knows that, he witnessed it firsthand. But one thing he’s not, is an absent father. He’d never do what was done to him, not if he had a choice, not if he had any say in the matter. And that’s just the thing.  The only option left is the one Dean doesn’t want to think about, the one he _can’t_ think about. Because if Sam is not a part of those kids’ future, it means Sam doesn’t exist in it, that, somehow, he isn’t anymore. It’s as simple as that. And so excruciatingly painful when the realization hits in full, when it all crumbles in shattered fragments he thought he pieced together a final time. 

It’s one version he can’t live with, and he proved it time and time again. So why ask that of him now? Why give and take back? It can’t be. There must be some other explanation, something he hasn’t considered, anything that would point to a valid interpretation of everything that he’s seen and heard. He’s reached that point, where panic and desperation wait impatiently to be squashed down and drowned in frustration and anger. He doesn’t understand, how it can go from good to this in hours, in minutes- in endless seconds that swallow him whole. How he can be the only one that’s figured it out, that’s realized the enormity of the unspoken words. He wants to scream, to hit something, to crush his pain and grief away – because reliving a hell worse than its consequences is not an option. He refuses. He can’t, won’t and shouldn’t be forced to do that. He deserves. He deserves for his brother to be happy. So why? Why, why, why?

The beer he almost forgot he was holding in his hand crashes against the wall, blown to smithereens by a force fueled by fury and pure rage – it’s such a fitting metaphor for everything that’s happening around him, that he almost laughs. Almost. He doesn’t, though. He’s too blinded by the single thought, by the idea of a world without the most important person in it. He’s ready to crash, to buckle under the weight of the notion, and wants to scream at the top of his lungs that he surrenders, that he doesn’t want to play this fucked up game of life and death anymore, only he’s sure that would provide even more entertainment for the mocking powers that be.

He doesn’t give them the satisfaction. He’s strong. He’s invincible or so believes it himself, and nothing’s getting him down. If he has to make the same mistakes, to travel the same path, he’s doing it in a heartbeat. It doesn’t matter what he learned, how far they come. It’s still the two of them. It’s still Sammy. He’d still do anything. But this time, he’s afraid he won’t be given the choice, that he won’t have a say in the matter he cares about the most. And that – that is the most terrifying though of them all – because he’s always done something. People say he’s brave. Noble. Truth is, he’s selfish in the most selfless of ways. He’s always done something because there was always someone to be done for. He’s scared. He’s scared shitless of being alone. And he would be. Alone. Because JD and Marie? He can’t see them that way. Not the way he sees Sam. Not like his entire world.

He hears footsteps in the hallway. And suddenly, it’s gone. The anger, the helpless feeling. It’s the waves making way for a calm sea, and yet the surface is dark and cloudy. Because he’s doing something about this. He has absolutely no idea what, but there’s no doubt or two ways about it. But, first of all, he has to understand. Why and how much he’s part of it. There’s a figure sitting across the table. He’s sure it wasn’t there moments ago, and yet, grey-green eyes burn a trail across his features.

“You figured it out, didn’t you?”

It’s more resignation than anything else, and he can’t stand for that. But he has to listen, because he holds no answers to questions he doesn’t know how to ask. He nods.

“Yeah. Took you longer than I would have thought.”


	4. Chapter 4

“Start talking.”

JD sighs, leaning back into the chair and depositing the glass of water in his hand on the table.

“Did you know he promised me he’d never leave?“ He’s looking at Dean with such pain etched into his features, that he the older man has trouble keeping his gaze away. It’s like watching a train wreck being put into motion. “He did. I was five years old and scared out of my mind. “

“Look- not that I don’t appreciate the stroll down memory lane-“

He continues as if there was no interruption.

“I’d just watched some stupid horror film that I wasn’t even supposed to know existed – my big act of rebellion, sneaking out in the middle of the night and wandering around the bunker with a flashlight in my hands – my big adventure. Came across some old tapes. Even little, I was always good with the technical stuff. Didn’t take me long to put two and two together. “

He’s fixed a point somewhere above Dean now, his fingers absently drumming a beat on the chair handles.

“They found me crying and shaking like a leaf on the basement floor. I didn’t understand back then. I knew monsters were real and all the shit that comes with that, but I also knew my dad, my uncle, my mom, the whole gang – they were invincible. They always saved the day, always saved the people. But the girl in the movie? She was ripped to shreds, from throat to- her guts were painted on the walls. She bled to death. Ten minutes of manic laughter, of shaky camera angles. I saw when life slipped out of her eyes. And I watched- I didn’t take my eyes off it for a single second. Because that didn’t happen - my dad always got there first –always fought the bad guys and won. He saved people. He didn’t let them die. It was the day I stopped believing he was bulletproof. That he couldn’t get hurt, that any of you were always the ones who’d make it back. So I made him promise. And he did. _Oh, he did._ He tucked me in, hugged me goodnight and promised me he would always be there, that he would never leave. That he’d be there to make it – _me_ –safe. He stayed with me the whole night – woke up with him asleep on the floor, squeezing the life out of my hand. And I believed him. I believed him, because he was dad, he was this big, damn hero that could do no wrong.”

His voice starts rising – cracking in places – and it breaks Dean’s heart, because he understands, better than he wishes he did.

“That changed.” He takes a deep breath, returning sparkling eyes towards Dean. “It changed the day you came back and he didn’t. “

It can’t be right. It feels like an elephant’s sitting on his chest. It’s a confirmation of his deepest fear, a punchline he expected, but wasn’t prepared to deal with.

“JD – you gotta tell what that means, man.” His own voice sounds foreign, weak.

“What it- _what it means_? Oh, come on, Uncle D, you’re not stupid. You can figure it out. Should I give you clues? How about a funeral pyre? Huh? That enough? Or maybe you want some more? Descriptions? You want to know how sick it made me to watch everything burn – literally- to smell it in the air -“

“That’s enough.” He can’t hear this. His own pain, his own fears echoed in a different voice, it cuts too close – too deep. It’s twisting a knife in an open wound, it’s flaying his flesh one layer at a time. He can’t even stop the traitorous tears that make their way down his cheek. “Please, just-stop.”

JD’s eyes are swirling in emotions, each warring for a front seat- but in the end, defeat and bitterness win out, and his shoulders slump, his hand coming up to his face and rubbing, and all of a sudden he seems so much younger than Dean’s ever imagined him to be. He knows the kid’s somewhere in his twenties, twenty-five, twenty-six at the most- but now he seems all of six years old, hurt, vulnerable and carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

“I’m sorry- I didn’t mean to-“

“It’s okay. “ He gets up, pulls out the bottle of whiskey and two identical glasses from the cabinet, and fills them up to the brink. “Well, it’s not okay. But you’re going to tell me everything you know and then we’re going to change that. ” He takes his first swig. “We’re going to make it right.”

JD takes the glass, downing half of its contents before surprising him with a small smile that’s playing at the corner of his lips.

“You haven’t changed at all.”

“Yeah, well, maybe someone ought to, ‘cause it doesn’t seem like this story has a happy ending.”

“You mean not the one you’re expecting.”

“You trying to say that Sam dy– that whatever you were telling me about just now was a good thing? Really?”

“Uncle Dean-“

“I might believe you if you didn’t look like you wanted to punch the walls bloody every time Marie so much as talks to Sam.” His anger’s riding a rollercoaster now, alternatively seething on the surface and warring it out with the part of his brain that tells him it’s not right- that he needs a clear head.

“You’re right. It’s really fucking far from alright. What I’m saying is, there’s more to it.”

“By all means – do tell.”

“All right. I’ll tell you everything I know. But there are some things you won’t want to hear.”

“Don’t worry, I can take it.”

“Yeah, that’s why we didn’t see you for almost a year after everything happened.”

He has no answer to that. Truth is, he’s more surprised he’s even present in the scenario at all. The way he sees it, he’d be a bullet behind Sam.

“Right. Anyway. I’ll spill. But you have to promise me something – you don’t tell Marie or S- dad that you know. They have one more day together and they deserve for it to be happy.”

“One day?”

“Yeah. Deal was three days.”

“Deal? Oh-please don’t tell me you were stupid enough-“

“Chill. It’s all Uncle Cassie. We got the Crossroads Demons history lesson enough times to be aware it’s not something you mess with.”

“Uncle Cassie?”

“Yeah? Feathery dude? Wouldn’t know social interaction if it hit him in the face? Full-fledged angel with cool powers? Include time-bending and general time travel?”

“Castiel.” Well, at least there was hope for him yet.

“Uh-huh. It was his birthday present for Marie.”

“This- what? Elaborate.”

He lets out a humorless chuckle.

“Marie. This tiny, fierce little girl that idolizes her father. Maybe it’s because she never got to know him- not in any way that matters, anyway.” He shrugs.

“But you said-“

“I said _I_ was old enough. She wasn’t. There’s a five year difference between us. I was seven and a half. She was two and change. She could barely walk straight, let alone understand what was happening. She never did. You see the way she looks at him? Like he hung the moon? That’s because she doesn’t know the full version, because she never grasped the full extent of what everything meant. She got the Daddy went to Heaven speech and the rest she re-built from mismatched memories and an overactive imagination.”

“And you?”

“I…I was old enough to ask questions. Maybe not old enough to hear the answers, but that didn’t stop me. So mom sat me down one day – after she caught me with a backpack filled with food and dad’s gun hidden in my coat on my way out the door – and explained everything. Well, almost. Rest I found out on my own. And from you, when you finally came back and were able to string more than two sentences together about him without looking like you wanted to jump from the nearest bridge.”

“What exactly did she tell you?”

He picks up the glass, swirling the liquid in it with smooth flicks of his wrists. His face reflects in million pieces through it, distorted and far away.

“She started at the beginning. Told me who he was and who he was supposed to be. The choices he made. How he loved me, but there were things that were out of his hands. How he made a decision, how that decision was the product of everything that happened until then. How him not coming back didn’t mean he didn’t want to. You see, it was all fine and dandy – but she loved him – she loved him so much she couldn’t tell me the whole truth, the things that’d make the idea of the man I built in my head fall and crumble. So she lied. And I understand. She protected me the best way she knew how. But she was wrong. Because even when I found out all of it – I didn’t care. God – he was still my superhero, you know? The one without a cape. Mine, the man I looked up to. It sounds so very, very lame – but that’s what inspired me the most. To learn about the mistakes he made. Because those gave me the confidence that I can be a man just as good as him without being perfect – without falling back to what was supposed to be, what should and everyone expected to happen. If anything, then I admired him more than ever. Because he was – is- a good man. Best I know. But I was angry. I still am. He made a promise he knew he couldn’t keep. And whatever happened that night, he chose. I know he chose to break it.”

“Wait, “whatever happened”? You said you knew everything.”

“Yeah, that… _that_ I never got the full story on. Tried to coax it out of you and mom, but all I ever got was that he died doing something he believed in. And well, police reports or any kind of digital fingerprints on encounters with creepy creatures in the middle of nowhere are still non-existent, even in the future, so my magic didn’t work with that one, no matter how hard I tried. ”

Logically, he knew. That rational part of his brain understood that’s what they were talking about all along, but to hear it put in words, so blunt and harsh – it took away a piece of his heart. It sounded so permanent, so detached – and he couldn’t think that way, couldn’t fathom a world where it had happened, where it was the truth.

“So-that’s it? You just what? Gave up? Never looked back?” Maybe it wasn’t fair, but it was all he had.

“No. I didn’t. I poured my heart and soul into something that I thought would make it better.”

Realization dawned. “The computer thingy. “

JD is startled into a chuckle. “Yeah. That. I guess I truly believed that I could stop it from happening. That I could help spare other kids out there the “daddy won’t be coming home anymore speech”.” He pauses, a self-deprecating smile making its way on his face. ”For a Winchester, I was never all that good in fights, you know? Sure, I practiced and trained my ass off to get where I am, to be able to protect Marie and myself – courtesy of dad and then you - but I always enjoyed the part after- that’s what made me feel ten feet tall when I was a midget that couldn’t even reach the bathroom sink. You’d include me in one of your conversations, and I’d say something, throw in some random idea about the monster of the week, and you’d both look at me with such pride... And it didn’t matter anymore that it took me months to learn a simple combat move – that I was the guy who’d be more interested in disassembling the gun to see how it works rather than using it - because I knew I could help, in other ways, ones no one else could. I had that. And then dad – well, that happened. I felt useless- I wanted to go out in the world, slaughter each and every one of the monsters that did it- and many that didn’t- but I couldn’t. I was too little, too inexperienced – _too fragile_. Hated myself for that. And I hated dad for making me feel that way – I blamed him – because he always told me it was okay to be different – but when push came to shove, it counted for jack shit. What good was I if I couldn’t even hold a gun properly? Or land a single solid punch? "

He sighs, reigning in some of the anger threatening to spill over. "Anyway, long story short, what followed is what Marie calls the dark ages – little as I was, I did and said some pretty nasty shit –to you, to mom – hell, I was even angry at my sister because she could smile, she could play like nothing was wrong – and she was a baby, for God’s sake.”

“What changed?”

“Had the mother of all bitch fits around age eleven and tried to throw out all of my dad’s things. Got as far as his clothes when I found his journal.”

“Um- hate break it to you, Sam doesn’t keep a journal.”

“True. He didn’t. First entry is dated day after tomorrow.”

“I…I don’t know what to say to that.”

“You do realize half of it is about you, right?”

“That little bitch. I can’t believe he’d lodge his complaints about my smelly feet for _posterity_. “

“No, you moron-“

“Hey-“

“What? You are. If you still haven’t realized that everything he ever does is with the hope to make you proud – “

“Wait-he-what?”

JD sighs.  
“Look, I can’t spell these things out for you – you have to understand them for yourself. All I’m saying is dad found his hero in you.” He smiles. “I can see why, too. You just have to let him believe. ”

There’s a heavy silence that stretches for a few long moments.

“That - _that_ was beautiful.” A smirk plays up. “Sure you don’t want to see about getting a job at Hallmark? You’d make real money.”

Yeah- he doesn’t do it- chick flick moments he can live with- but handling praise is bound to spiral down into sarcasm and clumsy deflection at some point. That doesn’t meant he hasn’t heard.

“Asshole.”

“That’s no way to talk to your elders.”

“So you admit you’re old.”

“Older.”

“Still. Want me to grab you a cane on the way? I’m worried you’ll fall-“

“If you say I can’t get up, I swear to God-“

“What, you’ll chase me down? Careful with those joints, Grandpa. Might sprain something.”

“Well you- you- _I_ -“ He scrambles for a witty response. Goddamn Winchester genes of mockery. “You’re stupid.”

“Not really. I have an IQ of 190.”

“Jesus fuck- _I mean_ – isn’t there a danger of your brain exploding or something?”

JD laughs, long and genuine, with his head thrown back, and it’s weird how they can go back and forth to extremes – but he guesses it’s in both of their nature, it’s that part of them that protects itself from shutting down by closing off before it gets too deep- before it gets too much of one thing. Dean pours himself another glass of amber liquid and watches, mesmerized, the shadow of another man, the echo of a laugh he hasn’t heard in years. He drinks.

It’s seconds-or years after that when a white envelope is carefully slid in front of him. It says simply, “Dean” in a messy scrawl, and seems to hold all the secrets he doesn’t want to know. JD sits up, sparing one last look at him, and shuffles for his temporary room. Abruptly, he stops and turns around.

“I don’t know what’s in that envelope. I’m just a messenger. But whatever it is, remember _this_ – Sam might be our dad, but you mean just as much. To me, and to Marie. So don’t you dare act like that doesn’t count for something. “

With that, he’s off, and Dean’s just sitting there, trembling fingers brushing absently along the edges of sandy paper.

 

  
_Well, if you’re reading this, I guess you figured it out, huh? You observant, persistent, stubborn motherfucker. I don’t know if I’m glad or upset that my children aren’t better liars._

_This? Not some maudlin letter of goodbyes. Or, if we’re being technical, hellos. It’s just a few words, scribbled together by an unskilled hand. Dean, your brother died. There’s no two ways about it, no form to say it other than upfront. Thing is, though, he died saving someone he loved. You. And I know. It’s the last thing you want to hear. Because it’s a fucked-up reversal of roles you don’t think you can live with – it was always your job. Your duty._  
 _But you also need to understand. You died one too many times for Sam to know how to live. You left him behind, you took an easy way out – and let him deal with the pieces left. Yes. Easy. And you can yell, curse, or scoff at me because I don’t know what I’m talking about. Except I do. Tell me, Dean, what hell was worse? The one that had you stringed up on the rack or the endless hours of watching your brother’s corpse, helpless, a failure in flesh and blood, weak, powerless to do anything other than scream and cry? See, you told me a few things. And so did Sam._

_He did that with you hundred times over and then he pressed repeat. So he’s earned this. He’s earned this choice. The way to go out. It doesn’t matter that it hurts like someone’s ripping your heart out of your chest with their bare hands and then puts it through the shredder. Like all there’ll ever be is emptiness. It doesn’t matter that you don’t see a way forward. Without him. You’re going to suck it up. You’ll shut up. Whatever it is you’re plotting to do, you’re going to stop. You’re not going to lift a finger to change this, even if it’s the hardest thing you’ll ever do. You’ll respect him. You’re going to give him this._

_Because, otherwise, you’ll break him. In ways neither of us could put together again. He’s already pieces glued together. I love him, Dean – I love him so much. Then, now, maybe forever. He was the love of my life. The light in the darkness you think it’s too idealistic to exist. But I wasn’t his. He loved me- of that I have no doubt – but he didn’t do it because of who I am. He loved me because of who I made him to be- a father, a fraction of the normal he hounded for so long. I gave him a way to be both – a hunter, and that guy that’s always hid under the surface, scratching at the walls. The guy who doesn’t count dead bodies instead of sheep when he goes to sleep._

_Love – that love that runs so deep it’s blood tinged with burning fire – that he reserved for you. And don’t you fucking roll your eyes. You’ve done a hell of a job ignoring it because it was less painful that way. All the times he made the wrong decisions- it was easier to convince yourself that he didn’t care. Because if he did, and still made them, then it meant it wasn’t enough. And that was more terrifying than anything he could ever say. What you never understood – it’s you. The catalyst to the formula. The thing that drives him to be. He’s tried out all of the options. Anger, acceptance, rage, grief, resignation. He didn’t do it in stages, because he’s a Winchester. He still battled himself and who he wanted to be. He tried, and failed, time and time again. And the scraps and shreds ground together. They collapsed. It’s hard to see it when you don’t want to, when you’re just as broken._

_I don’t blame you. No one ever did. Because, even if I hated what I couldn’t be, I loved that someone could. First time I met Sam? I knew. But you run into the guy who kick-started the Apocalypse, and you don’t expect a brick wall complete with puppy eyes of doom and fucking dimples. It throws you off. And you struggle to follow the train of thought. To distinguish between real and molded innately out of need. So I listened. I talked. I asked. I read between the lines. You’re two forces forged from the same light – a light met by the shadows, a light diffused in good and bad, in moral and shades of love._

_So, yes. I’m not throwing myself a pity party. I have two wonderful kids – people who turned out to be the best in both of you and the amazing in each other – they’re fragments of heroes and braveness, of knights and warriors in white hats. It’s Sam and you, it's me, distilled and measured in indefinite doses – you raised them as your own - maybe because you saw them as mirrored images and traces of what you lost, and what you wanted the most. Thank you will never be enough for that. But I know you don’t need it – because it’s love. For him, for them. And it’s the same duty it’s always been, just a different play. An off-centre future that you have – you need- to fight for. Because it’s good, Dean, I promise you – it’s good. Just not in the way you always thought it would be._

_Please, make a promise. To me. To yourself. To Sam. Step off and let him grow._

_P.S. : I know it’s eating at you. 5’9, dark hair and long legs. Oh, and my boobs? Killer. Seriously. Creatures and demons whose plumbing still works compliment them all the time. You know, right before they drop and die a bloody, gory death. Perks of the job._  


  
He laughs. He cries. He screams. He dies a little inside. He makes a choice.


	5. Epilogue

 

_It’s over before it really begins. He stands or falls - either way, he lets it happen. It comes for him – a second later, a tall shadow comes between. He feels the blow as if it was him, as if it was his flesh it clawed its way into. He hears gunshots in the distance. It’s done. He drops to his knees, cradles his head against his chest. He mutters nothings into his ear. Because he’s still alive – he’s still there- and letting him go is sawing off a piece of himself. He saved him. Somewhere, in a little part of nowhere, surrounded by darkness and blood, unworthy of everything they ever were, they play the final act._

_It’s “Good job, Sammy.”, it’s “I love you” told in different words. It’s tears for a promise made long ago. It’s silence, and that cuts deeper than any wound. She cries, because she didn’t know. He cries, because he did._

 

“So, I guess this is goodbye, then?”

“For now.”

She raises an eyebrow, but smiles nonetheless. She hugs them both. She clings to Sam like she never wants to let go. JD scoots a hand forward. He wants a handshake. He gets a hug. And if anyone sees the watery glint in his eyes, or the way his hands quiver, they never comment on it. It’s ignorance of a different kind. They wave – and for a moment, it’s time frozen- but in the next it’s gone. They dissolve into nothingness, they get lost in an unknown force – and it’s hard to convince themselves they were ever there.

But it’s a sketch – a life in hues of gray glued to their fridge door – and the ashes of a letter burnt to remind them, to ground a reality impossible to believe. It’s the two of them again, and yet it’s not. It is in all the ways that matter, it is how it wasn’t in a long time, it’s not exactly because it is. It’s raw, exposed like it never was, because the fears are out – but the secret’s not.

 

_Tiny rivers of crimson trickle down his chin. He tries to speak, but it all comes out in garbled sounds and gurgled attempts at a fight long lost. He looks at him, and he smiles. It’s his undoing, that little crooked grin with the tiny hint of dimples. Because his little brother knew- all this time, he knew. And he let Dean believe, he gave them both time. Time to be brothers again, time to mend broken truths and hurtful choices. He smiles too, and watches his eyes sparkle with unspoken pleas. He’d do anything for him – and this- this is the most painful proof._

 

“So. That happened.”

“Yeah.”

They’re both staring without sight at a random spot in the room, maybe the one they vanished from. It holds questions and answers, maybe ones they aren’t ready for. But they’re okay. In that twisted, vaguely timeless manner they always are, only enhanced and lit up from other angles, put up under a different set. They hope. And, if they think about it enough, they believe it too.

 

_It fades, gradually and inexorably fast. He holds on, he’s a warrior even in his death – and he finds comfort. In arms that were always there to catch him, in words that transcend the line of conscious and not- in the feeling he’ll always be there. In his heart. A trembling hand rests against his chest. It’s Dean, it’s always Dean, and it’s the last strength he can gather to do it. He hopes it’s enough. Darkness comes, warm and cold, and this time, he lets go._

 

They go on. They fight. In the end, it’s them against the world. Just like it’s always been.

 


End file.
